


bridge trolls

by textbookchoices



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Touch Aversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices
Summary: Peter slumped uncomfortably into the couch cushions, curling his arm around his bowl of popcorn mixed with chocolate. It was Halloween; Tony had invited him over for popcorn, candy, and a scary movie—and maybe some tinkering in the lab—two weeks ago.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	bridge trolls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salable_mystic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salable_mystic/gifts).



Peter slumped uncomfortably into the couch cushions, curling his arm around his bowl of popcorn mixed with chocolate. It was Halloween; Tony had invited him over for popcorn, candy, and a scary movie—and maybe some tinkering in the lab—two weeks ago.

Peter had been looking forward to it because it sounded like a date, even if it obviously wasn’t. He’d picked out an outfit—a jedi with a homemade lightsaber, so it was pretty cool but still chill and understated, unlike last year’s Thor costume that Mr. Stark could never see evidence of or else he’d _die_ , and that had nothing on Peter’s various Iron Man costumes that he’d worn over the years—and spent too much time in front of the mirror doing his hair and checking to make sure he didn’t have food in his teeth or acne on his chin.

And then, halfway to Stark Tower, somebody blew up a bridge.

Spider-Man had swung into action, obviously, and he’d gotten to stab a bridge troll creature with his homemade lightsaber, but he’d also been hit with a bright, blinding yellow light that threw him directly into Mr. Stark’s arms.

And it had been fine. He’d gotten back into the fight; he’d saved his lightsaber from being bridge troll food, and he and Mr. Stark had laughed all the way to the tower, and then they’d taken off their suits—Peter’s jedi costume and Mr. Stark’s casual jeans and Rolling Stones t-shirt revealed—and Mr. Stark had thrown an arm around Peter’s shoulders, casual in that way he does that sometimes leaves his fingers brushing the back of Peter’s neck, except that this time—

This time, instead of Peter going weak in the knees from want, hard just from a barely-there casual touch, Peter had felt a burn. And not the good kind, unfortunately, but the kind that had blisters appearing on his bright, hot red skin.

He’d half-screamed and half-groaned, jerking backwards as Mr. Stark pulled his hand away like—

Well, like he’d been burned.

So it turns out the stupid bridge trolls had the power to hit you with a burning yellow light that could burn you alive if you touched anybody for some hours afterward.

Dr. Strange hangs up on them after explaining, and Mr. Stark sighs in relief, and Peter resists the urge to yell into one of the throw pillows on the couch that he’s sitting on.

Peter at one end, and Mr. Stark all the way at the other.

He sighs and shoves a hand into the bowl of popcorn, shoveling the snack into his face. Obviously, it hadn’t been a date anyway, but—but he’d thought he could pretend, for a while. That they could share the bowl of popcorn, sitting close enough to pass it back and forth. That maybe he and Mr. Stark would both reach for a handful at the same time, and end up with their fingers tangled up together.

Mr. Stark would probably taste amazing. Popcorn and chocolate and, okay, he’s drinking something that smells like Aunt May’s nail polish remover, but Peter’s pretty sure it’s an acquired taste he’d be more than willing to acquire if it came attached to Mr. Stark’s mouth.

Somebody screams in the movie. Aliens are attacking New York in it, and the main character is hiding in the middle of Grand Central, which feels like a bad move as far as hiding goes. Peter spares a moment to wonder why it’s always New York, and then another to remember that at least New Yorkers seem to be pretty used to all the crazy things that keep happening these days.

Mr. Stark adjusts on the other end of the couch, moving a leg to get more comfortable, Peter supposes, but it means Mr. Stark is sitting with his legs spread out invitingly, and Peter obviously couldn’t just go over there and climb into Mr. Stark’s lap even if he weren’t dosed with some sort of bridge troll “No touchie!” mood killer, but.

But.

“Do you, uh, want some?” Peter asks, voice a little quiet in the dark. He gestures at the bowl of popcorn he’s holding. Mr. Stark glances at him, then says, “Yeah, sure. Toss it over.”

Except Peter can’t toss a bowl of popcorn.

(He probably could, actually. But that’s not the point.)

Peter slides down the couch, ignoring the way Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow as Peter gets closer. Not close enough to touch or anything, just—closer.

Just close enough that he can hear the soft way Mr. Stark breathes, feel the way the couch moves every time he fidgets or adjusts the way he’s sitting. He can smell the familiar cologne that makes his toes curl, just imagining how it might smell up-close, Peter’s mouth sucking heavy and hot against Mr. Stark’s throat.

Peter swallows. At least his jedi robe means he doesn’t have to worry about any, uh, tenting issues. Peter had stayed the night a month or so ago, their scheduled team training being an overnight one, and his thin, Avengers-themed pajamas (a gift from Uncle Ben the Christmas before he’d died, so they were kind of small to begin with, and didn’t entirely cover his ankles anymore) had been a problem, to say the least.

In the end, the main character rescues the girl he’s in love with, a train full of school kids, and blows up the mothership in a really, really scientifically inaccurate way that manages to simultaneously kill all the aliens on the ground, which, sure, Peter guesses happened in real life, but seems too convenient in the movie anyway, and Peter eats three bags worth of Mr. Stark’s super expensive imported luxury chocolate popcorn by the time the main character’s are kissing in the fake sunset.

Peter sucks the chocolate off his thumb as F.R.I.D.A.Y. brightens the room, the movie’s credits beginning to play.

“What do you think, kid, we safe again?” Mr. Stark asks, leaning forward from his spot on the couch.

Peter shrugs and lifts a hand, gesturing for Mr. Stark to go ahead and try touching him.

Mr. Stark does, slowly, gently, softly, taking Peter’s hand in his own, rubbing his thumb delicately over the back of Peter’s hand.

Peter’s skin doesn’t explode in heated blisters or start turning red with an accompanying burning sensation, so he says, “Seems, um, fine.”

If the gentle tingle that’s making butterflies explode in his stomach can be described as mediocrely as _fine_.

“Yep,” Mr. Stark agrees, the ‘p’ popping, but he hasn’t let go, still looking at Peter’s hand, a little furrow between his eyebrows.

He hasn’t let go of Peter’s hand.

He’s just cradling it. Holding it in his own.

Mr. Stark is _holding his hand._

Abruptly, Mr. Stark seems to realize it too and lets go before he stands up, stretching enough that his t-shirt rises up just enough to give Peter a second’s glimpse at the happy trail leading from his belly button down under the waistline of his jeans.

Well, Peter knows what his dreams are going to be featuring tonight, that’s not a mental picture that’ll be leaving him anytime soon.

“Come on, kid,” Mr. Stark says. “Movie was fine, but we have a whole night ahead of us. Let’s go mess around in the lab.”

If they spend three hours designing an entirely new and working lightsaber to go with Peter’s jedi costume, well, nobody could judge them.

If they end the night by Mr. Stark offering up the guest room, and Peter brushing too close to him while he passes him to get to the spindle of copper wiring, and Mr. Stark’s fingers linger against the back of his neck while he hands the wiring over, well.

Nobody has to know.

But maybe, just maybe, it had sort of been a date.


End file.
